


devil eyes

by LyraLV



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Dysfunctional Relationships, Eventual Kustard, Implied Fellcest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-11-18 12:59:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18121211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyraLV/pseuds/LyraLV
Summary: Red's not one to give the benefit of the doubt, but he might be learning to trust his instincts.





	devil eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nilchance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nilchance/gifts).
  * Inspired by [every me and every you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15227427) by [nilchance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nilchance/pseuds/nilchance). 



> Set pre-series of attl about a week after Red and Edge arrive in Undertale. This isn't canon or anything; this is just me seeing if I can figure out Red's character through a little study of him (spoilers: I didn't). 
> 
> detailed content warnings in the end notes

The surface of this world is unbearably loud. It rings like static in Red’s ears every time he leaves the cozy house of the softer Sans and Papyrus and steps outside. It’s become an unpleasant shock whenever he opens the front door, subconsciously expecting snow and dust in the silent air and is instead greeted with a clusterfuck of...noise.

Fuck, is it loud. The anime he used to watch with his Alphys during his college days never prepared him for the level of muchness that the city brings.

Sans— _Red_ , he reminds himself, such a stupid nickname—finds a curious satisfaction in seeing the discomfort that the other Sans clearly feels every time Red or Edge flinches or tenses at an unexpected sound. It’s almost comical that this universe’s Sans is not without some measure of misplaced guilt for the horrors that he and Edge had to endure. Not pity though. Red would have chucked a brick at Sans’s miserable, beautifully smooth face that’s sharpened by the bags under his eyes. Fuck this Sans for having such an easy out and escaping his nightmares (some of them, at least) in the pansy ass version of their world. It’s laughable how relaxed everyone is around each other.

(Never mind that Red wonders if he and Edge could have lived a life similar to Sans and Papyrus’s if things had been different. Never mind that Red questions if it was something he did wrong that kept Edge from having a relatively normal life, if there was something he could have done to save his brother).

(He would be envious of this Papyrus if he could find the heart. But no. He doesn’t fault a version of his brother for finding some measure of happiness.)

Turns out he’s as much of a protective sap as Sans. He sees it in the way his alternate self stares at Edge like he’s something broken that needs to be fixed. Seriously. Fuck this Sans.

The thing about suddenly appearing in the basement of his alternate self is that gaining citizenship and a place to stay takes an annoyingly long amount of time. The process involves daily meetings with different people who have the same questions. He and Edge have only been here for a week, and already, Red is feeling the desire to say fuck it and squat in a farmhouse in the country. Least he and his bro wouldn’t be surrounded by so many people who have adherences and niceties shoved so far up their asses that they leak the shit they’re full of.

Since the time they’ve been on the surface, one of the few spaces that Red and Edge have truly come to appreciate is the park directly across from the embassy. It’s not terribly large, but it’s big enough that the monsters and humans aren’t crowded in every square inch. There’s actually some space to breathe and pickpocket any unsuspecting humans.

That and also, as Red has come to learn during the breaks between meetings at the embassy, the other Sans sets up shop for his hot dog gig in the park. It makes for a great outlet of scratching Red’s itch by seeing all the new ways in which he can annoy the shit out of him.

(And if he uses it as an excuse to also see what makes Sans tick, well, that’s nobody else’s business but his own).

It’s early afternoon when Red shuffles across the park to the hot dog stand. He sees the dirtied slippers of Sans first, propped up on the counter to support his sagging form. As Red comes closer, he finds Sans snoozing behind the stand, and it fills him with a slow rush of anger at the absurdity (and unfairness) of it all before it vanishes just as easily. The temptation to throw a bone at one of the precariously balanced stool's legs and see if it tips him to the ground is strong, but before Red can summon his magic, Sans cracks an eye open and grins a neutral grin at him.

“Get tired of the potluck they’re serving?”

Sans doesn’t know about the connotations from Red’s universe of offering food, and he doesn’t have to know about it. Yet. The longer that joke can play out, Red thinks, the funnier the punchline will inevitably be. Edge likely won't stop fighting the daily aneurysm of whenever someone offers to buy him lunch. Red is starting to suss that accepting a hand here or there might be a bit more beneficial. Who is he to not take advantage of some other chump’s stash. Their loss.

Edge has taken to making sure that he and Red have spare food on hand in their inventories. Kinda hard to turn off the need to hoard food after scrounging for scraps for so long. The sheer variety of food that the surface offers has also keyed in Edge's desire to experiment with cooking again. It might be the happiest Red has seen his brother in a long while, even if it means messing around in a kitchen that's not theirs, sleeping in a bed that's not theirs.

If all actually goes according to fucking plan, they will soon begin the search for a place of their own.

(And if they do get sent back, at least they'll be able to take something back with them that'll help fill the gap the emptiness of the supply shortage leaves behind.)

Regardless of whether he has food in his inventory or not, Red can't turn off the instinctive need to save as much as possible. Hence, Red's acceptance of a free meal here or there. Considering Sans's adorable urge to fix them, Red might just be able to weasel out another freebie.

He smirks. “You offering to give me some meat?”

“Sure am,” Sans says and nudges a sign on the counter with his foot. “For the low, low price of 1,000G.”

Red’s grin widens as he rests his arms on the stand and peers inside. A shelf is literally stuffed to the brim with unopened ketchup bottles. On another shelf is exactly one bottle each of mustard and relish. Red would criticize Sans for his choice of condiments or the lack thereof, but something more important has caught his attention. Something shiny. He pins Sans with his eyes.

“Damn, Sansy. 1,000G’s pretty steep. Don’t know if I’d be willing to pay that much for your 'dog.”

“I’ve realized at length that some things are worth a bit more extra.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you have,” Red croons. “Willing to sell just about anything for the right price if it means you can cruise down easy street, huh?”

Sans stares at him for a moment, his brows slightly furrowing as his grin remains in place, but then he plasters his mask back on once more.

“Only serve the finest products here,” he says. “I’ll even toast the buns for you at an extra 50G.”

Red’s grin is sharklike. “Oh, pumpkin, that's a little too low, even for you."

The silence in which Sans stares at Red is longer this time. He might be sweating. Red found out rather quick in his short time in this universe that Sans has a mildly annoyed reaction to the petnames that Red mockingly gives him. He pretends that the names just roll off his shoulder, but Red is Sans, and it has become increasingly hilarious to see the brief moments where Sans's mind shorts over a petname, trying to process why Red seems to call him every endearment under the sun except for his actual name. Then, he ignores it like he does with ninety-five percent of the world and flashes a bored grin. Red can see the slowly mounting frustration, though, as Sans puzzles over it. It's an easy entertainment that has managed to hold Red's interest.

Which is why when he sees the slightly miffed expression on Sans's face, he's hard-pressed to determine if it's the endearments this time or the blatant self-denial in which Sans appears to love basking. It's clear that this Sans didn't have as much of a rough time as Red and Edge suffered through underground. But Sans is a saver, not a spender. Red can see that uncertainty ticking behind those eyelights as if he were staring into a mirror. Red knows desperation.

He wonders if Sans has allowed it to carry him as far as it did Red. Then again, Sans and Papyrus seem comfortable on the surface. They shouldn't have anything to worry about, not if the house and abundance of food they have at their disposal is any indication. Still.

Another thought for another time. He can tell Sans is about to fold if Red chips much further. He files the idea away for later investigation.

Eyes cutting off to the side in a surprisingly obvious display of unease, Sans says, “I think we might not be talking about the same th—"

“So, Grillby’s,” Red cuts him off. “He’s got a place somewhere up here, doesn’t he?”

Sans looks even more suspicious. “Yeah. Why?”

“How’s you feel about splitting lunch with me?”

“Depends. We going dutch, or do you actually want me to pay for your food as well?”

“Well, shucks, Sansy, you’re a real doll for offering. Let’s go before Assgore twigs I’m missing.”

An amused huff escapes Sans as he stands and rounds the hot dog stand. He tosses a sign with a shrug emoji from his inventory onto the counter and yanks down a metal cover that he secures to inner half of the counter. Either he trusts the humans to not come poking at his stuff, or the flimsy metal lock really is strong enough of a deterrent to ward off petty theft. Sans holds a hand out to Red.

"I know a shortcut." He winks.

Red simply raises a brow and doesn't even look at the proffered hand. This close, he can see the smoothness of Sans's face, eyes tracing the line where Red's scar would be. He keeps his hands in his pockets.

To Sans's credit, he doesn't adopt a look of pity, but Red can certainly see him thinking about it. Red’s fingers twitch inside his pockets.

Sans wiggles the fingers on his hand. He's trying to look disarming. Red would spot the tactic a mile wide, and the offense sharpens into something more violent, stretching his grin wide.

Everyone in this soft world loves to walk on eggshells and wear kid gloves with the constant awareness that the slightest remark could set someone off, and the innocent demeanor is meant to act as a defense against another person’s anger. The very concept of tripping all over oneself to avoid accidentally stepping on someone else's toes is laughably pathetic. Where Red comes from, no dumbass talks in circles or apologies without knowing they'd overstepped in challenging someone stronger than themselves and pleading for mercy at death's door. Unless of course it's a lesser monster, but even then, they would have to be willing to fight to the death. It's how anyone in Red's world survived. To beg for mercy is to beg for death.

Maybe that's why this universe feels like a giant bomb ready to be set off. It makes him and Edge beyond paranoid, and he hates it. He hates this judgy world for pretending to not judge others and talking around each other as if they don’t know how to share an opinion that falls outside of the cookie cutter. Maybe that's why no one feels at ease around Red or Edge.

This whole affair is making Red twitchy, and they'd only been here a week. What Red wouldn't do to strangle one of the politicians who pretended to give a rat's ass about either of them. He‘d see how wishwashy they would react when he gave no mercy to their struggling. Fuck anyone who said they understood Red or his brother. The next person to attempt fake politeness would find themselves in the nearest alley with a hand around their neck.

Red eyes Sans. He wonders how long he can stand here before the dumbass’s arm finally gets too tired and drops from stiffly remaining in the same position. Red doubts Sans’s pain tolerance is very high.

As it turns out, Sans is the one to break the silence by swiftly turning his head to the side and unleashing a quartet of loud sneezes.

“Geez,” Red says, mildly appalled and impressed.

“Yeah, I know.” Sans sniffs and wipes his sleeve across his face because fuck being couth. “Been smelling the flowers too much.”

“Knew you were a pansy.”

“It’s been a real thorn in my side. Pretty soon I’ll be pushing up daisies.”

Red snorts, and Sans grins in triumph. He tilts his head. “We gonna shortcut there, or do you wanna keep up this delightful chitchat?”

Red considers his options. The thought of sitting in some stuffy cab or bus—and isn’t that still a strange phenomenon he’s adjusting to—much less paying for one, hardly appeals to him. He doubts Sans would try anything at this point. He also knows that Sans knows if anything should happen to Red, Edge will hound his ass. And not in the fun way.

He bounces on his heels, eyes the embassy where Edge is waiting and playing the part of cooperative pacifist, and looks back at Sans. He reaches down and grabs Sans’s hand, much to the clear surprise of the other if the slight flinch is anything to go by.

Red interlocks his fingers with Sans’s and sweetly says, “After you, cupcake.”

Sans narrows his eyes but obeys him like the good little monster that he is and pulls Red through the shortcut. When they step between the spaces and back into sharp daylight, Red stands in front of a brick building situated at the corner of a streetlight, a neon light emblazoned with _Grillby’s_ above the entrance.

The bar looks pleasant and inviting, and as a monster exits through the glass door, the dim sound of chatter and easy laughter spills out onto the sidewalk. It’s nothing like the cruel amusement back home.

Sans steps into his view and flashes him a brief, genuine grin. “Grillby got the place fixed up about half a year ago. Really lucked out on the location. This place is always hopping, but we should be able to get a couple of seats at the bar.”

Red shrugs. It’s not like he needs the reassurance, and yet here Sans is again, reassuring Red about something as mundane as getting a spot that’s not so claustrophobic. Instead of chewing Sans’s head off, he settles for lightly swinging their arms to remind him that Red still firmly has his hand in his grasp. The glance Sans sends their interlocked hands makes him smirk. “Let’s jump to it, then.”

Sans stares at him, a look that says he knows exactly what Red is doing but won’t bring himself to say anything and steps past Red in the hopes of tugging apart their hands. Red tightens his hold and smooths a thumb over Sans’s knuckles. The shiver he feels through their connection enhances his deep-seated smugness.

Sans seems to resign himself to his fate and pulls open the door to Grillby’s, a bell signaling their entry. The familiar smell of grease causes Red’s saliva to swell.

A jukebox against the wall plays some boppy tune from the surface. A great deal of the room's lighting filters through the large glass windows that compromise the front of the building. Further inside the bar reveals subtle warm tones that help lighten the atmosphere while also keeping it cozy. The booths and tables are nearly all taken, monsters and humans filling the seats in some bizarre scene that seems to almost be friendly. The only offensive slight Red can pick up is the blatant curiosity with which the humans eyeball the monsters. No one appears to mind the extra attention.

When Red’s eyes land on the owner of the bar, he momentarily stiffens. He’s not expecting the warm orange flames that make up the elemental, nor is he expecting to find Grillby’s attention on him, expressionless as his face might appear. There's always room for hostility. It immediately raises his hackles, and he allows a small instinctual glow of magic to form at his fingertips in warning. A sudden flinch and tug at his hand startles him, and when he looks to the side, he sees Sans staring hard at him, sweat beading at the side of his face. Red then follows his eyes as they drop down and land on their interlocked hands, one of which is warm and faintly glowing red.

Oops. Red lets Sans go who decidedly lifts his hand to rub the tension away and then balks from the telling reflex, instead stepping further inside. They make the trip to the bar in the back in short order, but not without a chorus of hellos and Sans’s name echoing from several of the patrons. Seems Sans is popular here with a little network of information established. Red takes note. His eyes remain on Grillby.

They manage to secure two bar stools, and Sans pitches into his with a heaviness that belies his exhaustion. He's unnervingly unconcerned with his surroundings, elbows propping on the counter to hold up his head, his eyelights fuzzy in the mirrored back of the bar. Red decides if this idiot gets burned, he won't be taking any of the blame.

The flame elemental has moved down a few paces to tend to some other patrons. The majority of conversation sounds one-sided, but Red has spent many hours mooching off the elemental bastard from his universe, and he’s picked up on the subtle cues that emanate in the flicker of flames. Seeing the easy way in which the other monsters chat with Grillby, they must be regulars, too. Red narrows his eyes. It doesn’t make the firecracker any more trustworthy. Red’s learned his lesson, and he’ll be damned if he lets familiarity take advantage of him.

He’s momentarily snapped out of his dogged watching by the sudden presence that fills the seat to his left. The sight of crimson feathers blinds him and insinuates itself far too close for comfort.

“‘Sup, Sans. Haven’t seen your ugly mug around here in a whole 24 hours.”

Red opens his mouth to ask the monster what the fuck, but Sans, to his increasing chagrin, leans across the counter to be heard over the chatter of the bar, practically shoving Red back so he can keep his elbows propped on the counter.

Sans says, “My face is an undiluted cup of cherubic purity and will not stand for such blasphemy."

When the bird monster just keeps staring at him, apparently believing he's entitled to an answer to his non-question, Sans caves as usual and shrugs nonchalantly. "Just keeping myself busy. Haven’t been able to take as many breaks lately, but don’t worry. It doesn’t mean that I’ve been working extra hard in the meantime.” He sends a wink Red’s way. Red just glares. Asshole.

“Oh, yeah?” the bird monster asks. Red can feel the attention shift to him. “New in town, huh? How’s come you’ve never swung by Grillby’s before now?”

“Politics,” Sans says before Red can get a word out because apparently he can't lie for himself. “Used to work at the capital before we sprung loose. Asgore’s been running him ragged.”

“No kidding. Huh.”

Red can hear the suspicion in the monster’s voice clear as the fucking day on the surface. Sans catches on too because he immediately changes the subject and looks at Red. Tactful.

“Red, this here is, uh, Red. Most people know him as Red Bird, but everyone shortens it to Red.” Sans leans in, eyelights bright in the same way Red knows that his turn when he's about to lay someone flat. His attention piques. Sans whispers conspiratorially, “His real name is Eugene.”

"Fuck, don't just go around telling everyone that."

"Isn't that why you told me?"

"Biggest mistake of my life. You took advantage of me when I was drunk and won't even deny it."

"Aw, don't get your feathers ruffled, Big Bird. Besides," he jerks a thumb at Red, "his name isn't that much better."

The bird emits a squawk that might be a laugh. His eyes meet Red's. "So, what does the jerkface call you?"

Red, already bored to tears by the utter easiness with which Sans and the other monster banter (and more than a little disappointed that Sans didn't give him a show), lifts a brow and throws an arm around Sans's shoulders since he's so kindly decided to all but lounge in Red's lap. Easy access. He rubs at the sudden line of tension there. "Mostly not on a first name basis, but when we're alone, he likes to call me Sir."

The bird monster wheezes out another laugh, clearly not expecting the new form of ammo Red's given him. Sans opens his mouth likely to spout some remonstrative bullshit, a wary look in his eyes that he fixes on Red as he tries to puzzle over Red's irritation. There's no denying he sees the challenge in Red's grin. Sans doesn't back down.

Interesting.

Before Sans can protest, Grillby joins them and automatically cuts the conversation before it can descend into fisticuffs. Shame. Red could use some fisticuffs right about now.

(His spine is angrily tight with tension.)

The flame elemental likely sensed the possible makings of a fight, lighthearted or not. Red's version always did, anyway. Any amusement quickly disappears.

Grillby's presence seems to break up the amiable discourse, and the bird monster, with a last quip and wave to Sans, flits back down to his seat at the end of the bar. Red shoves Sans out of his lap. His vicious grin is reserved alone for Grillby. The memory of his brother's nearly scorched spine is distinct. Red won't be making any mistakes this time. After all, an asshole is an asshole, no matter what universe shenanigans have to say on the matter. Sans is living proof of that.

The elemental inclines his head towards Red, seeming to size him up. His eyes flick between him and Sans. Red understands the message well enough. Grillby hasn't met Red before, but he certainly looks familiar to the elemental. The universe's copy slouched to Red's right probably doesn't help that comparison.

Red lifts a brow. “Same to you, spitfire.”

Grillby tilts his head, flames growing slightly in question. The suspicion radiating from him is palpable. Red hears the query clear as day. He props an elbow on the counter and leans his chin against his fist. He grins wide in warning.

“You might not like what you see. Could really backfire on you.”

He senses the movement behind him but is unable to stop the slap against his back, and he cuts a withering glare to Sans who isn't fazed.

“Don’t take it too personally, Grillby.” His hand pats patronizingly against Red’s shoulder. “This one’s just been a bit stoked lately. Real mess of trouble. Landed right out of the frying pan and—"

Grillby levels a Look at Sans that dares him to finish the sentence. Sans grins back.

Red shrugs the hand off. “You got anything decent to serve back there, or are you just going to loiter here all fucking day?”

Grillby’s flames dim, and behind his thin glasses, Red can see the white slanted eyes narrow.

“... poison?” His soft voice crackles just like Grillby's from Red's universe.

“Mustard.”

For all the judgment that Red can feel in the fire elemental's gaze, he has to give him credit for not saying anything or acting surprised as he reaches underneath the counter and returns with an unopened bottle. Must be used to Sans's weird tastes if the ketchup bottle that he's currently nursing is anything to go by. Where Sans procured the condiment is anyone's guess, but Red wouldn't be surprised if he took free reign of the bar's stash. Just like Red used to do back home but with a bit more grinning wide and watching his back in the hopes that someone would protest his liberal exertion of power over Grillby's supply. The anticipation he feels in waiting for this Grillby to protest or snap back at him is growing uncomfortable.

(Sometimes, Red misses the freedom that a fight provided in his universe. It left him on the edge, teetering between the possibility of stabbing or getting stabbed. He misses that release.)

Grillby slides the mustard over to him.

Red peels the bottle open, tips it at Grillby, and takes a swig. It burns down his throat, awakening his taste buds after a week-long abstinence of the stuff, and some small part of him is appeased.

He looks back at the waiting bartender. “‘S good,” he grudgingly assents.

Satisfied, Grillby moves down to tend to the cluster of monsters that just approached the bar. Red can feel Sans’s eyes digging into the side of his face.

Without setting down the bottle of mustard, he takes another sip, allowing the taste to curl over his tongue and fill his mouth. Not even Sans is going to deprive him of his moment. Edge has yet to agree to bring home any mustard from the grocery store heaven, and Red is a simple man with simple cravings that need to be fulfilled. He almost feels relaxed. Swallowing, he says, “What?”

He sees the shrug out of the corner of his eye. Sans's lackadaisical attitude isn't fooling either of them. “Oh, nothing. Just wondering what the fuck your deal is.”

Red snorts. "Dunno what you're talking about."

"I mean, you've not the kind of face I'd put on a greeting card, but those were some seriously stabby looks you were giving there, Jack Torrance." Sans takes a swig from his ketchup. "What the fuck do you have against Grillby?"

Red twists in his seat and looks down at Sans from his dais of two extra inches of height. He never thought he'd have the privilege of looming, and judging by Sans's expression, he isn't impressed, but it doesn't mean that Red doesn't lord it over Sans at every chance he can get. He wonders if it’s something that could make Sans tick if he keeps shoving it in Sans's face. Just a reminder of the LV he has, what it's given him. For all Sans feigns nonchalance, he has a poor way of concealing the judge. Red saw the look Sans gave him when he first checked him. Red's LV unsettles Sans.

Good. Let him squirm. Just another source of free entertainment.

Red says, "Not sure what's got you in a tizzy, Sansy. I got my mustard. I'm happy."

Sans's eyes narrow even further. "Are you? Are you really, buddy?"

Red smirks, reaches over, and chucks Sans's chin. "Ain't nothing you need to worry your pretty little face about. I solemnly swear not to do any killing in this establishment."

Sans winces and tugs free of Red's grip. "Let's just agree to not do any killing. At all. Ever. For your entire stay on—"

"If it makes you sleep better at night, you can agree to all the terms you want. S'no skin off my nose if you want a clear conscience 'cause fuck knows how you sleep at night."

"Could have to do something with the fact that I've been relegated to sleeping on my own couch in my own house," Sans retorts.

"And you're a real peach for offering us your bed," Red simpers. "Just so you know, I'm sure we could always make room for one more." He winks.

Of course, Sans just stares at him blankly. "Yeah, no, think I'll pass. Don't see why you'd even want to crowd yourselves even further. Paps would go stir crazy if he had to sleep in the same bed as me for so long."

Red waves a hand. "Your brother barely sleeps at all."

"Eh, not the point. You'd think Edge'd be the same way." The calculating stare returns.

Red grins around the lip of his mustard bottle. He has no idea when Sans will figure out his and Edge's relationship. If Sans figures it out. He has an uncanny ability of blatantly ignoring a steaming pile of evidence in front of him.

"Boss gets just enough sleep to keep himself functioning. The rest of the night he spends filling out paperwork for your embassy so that we can become approved citizens or whatever."

"Yeah, well. We didn't exactly become registered overnight, either. Hey," he says, tactfully changing the subject, "Why don't you see if you could get your brother to freaking make some noise? Get him to wear a bell or something. Instead of literally ghosting around our house."

Red snickers. "Heh. Heard he startled you the other morning. What, the man's not allowed to get some coffee?"

Sans grins at him in a way that betrays his annoyance. "He could blend a smoothie for all I care. At least then he'd make some noise. I'd just like a little forewarning instead of waking up at six-thirty to your brother sipping his morning brew in the armchair right next to me."

"Hey, boss would never do anything untoward to ya," Red mockingly protests, placing a hand over his chest. "I'm shocked you'd think we'd even stoop so low. He's probably just enjoying the peace and quiet." Red leans closer, grinning like a wolf. "Said you made a pretty picture, though. All bundled up on the couch like a sweet, innocent angel."

"Try a little harder, Red," Sans deadpans. "My bullshit indicator doesn't seem to be working properly."

"Yeah, you're right." Red leans back into his seat as he takes another long pull of mustard. He swishes it around in his mouth, savoring the tingling sensation as he swallows, and it lingers on his tongue. "He said you were more adorable when you crashed to the floor in surprise and had a one man fight with the blanket."

Edge had relayed the stunned look he'd seen on Sans's face, one that spoke of too much hostility and fear. A bone construct had materialized in his hand, fuzzy on the edges but with resolute intent. Sans had been prepared to fight. Anticipating it. His LV remained a sanctimonious level one, but his reaction resembled something that Edge had seen far too much in Red.

Sans has fought before. And while it doesn't show in his stats, Red would be willing to bet his ass that the poor fucker went through some resets that left him cold on the inside, just like they did Red. Guess it shouldn't surprise him. The ways the universe has fucked Red over is just as likely to do the same to Sans.

"Edge is hilarious, but he's not that funny," Sans says. Then, after a moment, "So, since you're not murdering anybody this time, do you want to actually order some food?"

Red allows his eyes to trail back down the bar to where Grillby is polishing some glasses. His check of the monster revealed a slightly elevated LV, but it's nowhere near where his Grillby's was. And if the time continuum bullshit is still similar across the border, then this Grillby has fought in a war as well. It would explain the LV.

Red's not one to give the benefit of the doubt, but he might be learning to trust his instincts. This time around, his instincts seem to be suggesting that for all his cautious behavior and probing questions, this Grillby is not like the one back home. He might not stab Red once his back's turned. The relief of finding a haven that doesn't demand his guard to be raised to the fullest extent is tempting, but he can't bring himself to trust anyone. Not yet.

But the prospect is there, and it's tantalizing. It's a possibility that this place could better replace what he once had, weird and questionable in its insouciant nature as it is.

"Sure, sugar. I could always go for some grub, long as you’re buying." Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Sans on the verge of an eyeroll as he lifts a hand to summon Grillby.

“There’s a reason we decided to give only one of us a nickname, you know. Since we share the same name and all.”

Red snorts. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings: Red turning Sans's suggestive remarks into jokes about prostitution; mentions of Red and Edge's trauma in UF and dysfunctional relationship; Red thinking about killing people multiple times (really, it's a bit of a problem)
> 
> This chapter is brought to you by Devil Eyes by Hippie Sabotage. I find the song quite fitting for Red's brand.
> 
> Thank you nilchance for humoring me once more! I haven't had this much fun exploring characters (frustrating or otherwise) in a long while. I'm honestly not entirely sure where the exact inspiration for this ficlet cropped up because I feel like the entire series is just one big inspiration for me. 
> 
> As always, Ain't This the Life belongs to nilchance, as do their characterization of the grumpy skeleton boys.


End file.
